“Well, mum, which one do you fancy? Remember it’s going on the mantelpiece at our house, not yours so go with one of the bigger ones if you want. Don’t worry about the colour. Just choose the one you like and we’ll redecorate our front room to match.”
Gran looked at Dad and then at me. I shrugged my shoulders. Like her, I had no idea what we were doing here.
“What are they son?” asked Gran, “And why do I need one?”
“They’re urns mum. You’re going to need one – somewhere to stay when you move in with us.”
A 100-word story for this week’s prompt at Friday Fictioneers.
Photo courtesy of Sarah Ann Hall
It’s just a list I hear you say.
True, but it’s one you dare not ignore. It goes up on this wall nine o’clock every Friday morning.
Some bright spark, seeing his name wasn’t on the list, has gone and chalked a smiley face underneath. Foolish. It’s acts like that get you noticed.
What’s on the list I hear you ask? Just names. If your name’s on the list then your obliged to go through that door to the right.
You’re probably wondering what’s behind the door?
Thing is, I’ve no idea.
Never yet met anyone who’s come back out.
A 100-word story for this week’s prompt at Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers.
Photo courtesy of Grant-Sud.
The ferry had been fitted with the latest technology and the last human operator had retired almost five years ago. The onboard computer ensured the boat ran on time – day after day after day.
Passengers got used to a computerised voice wishing them a good day. Many would say a cheery ‘thank you’ in reply as they disembarked.
The virus that engulfed the globe six months ago annihilated all of Earth’s living creatures in a matter of weeks.
Each day the ferry makes this journey. Its digital captain oblivious of his lack of passengers. His daily, cheery adieu, going unheard.
Photo Prompt © Ted Strutz
A 100-word story for this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt.
The two large alien arachnids skulked in the shadows watching and waiting. Then the smaller of the two leaned across to the other and whispered,
“Tell me again Alf, how’s this going to work?”
“Dead simple Sam. When the human thing comes in here to put on his old boots his feet will be trapped in our webs. He won’t be able to move.”
“You start nibbling his right leg, I’ll have a go at the left. Well leave the arms and torso for lunchtime and the head will make a nice supper before bed. Are you ready?”
Photo courtesy of Sarah Potter
A 100 word story for Friday Fictioneers.